walking safety hazards(insanity is catching)
by soaring-smiles
Summary: They would be excellent at being adults, he is sure, if they weren't so busy having fun. Eleven and Rose go about losing dignity, pride and various items of clothing.


**Because why on earth would you make Eleven and Rose angsty when you can make them ****_happy?! _****Think about it guys. There is not enough of fluff or crack with them in it. It's all '****_no I am too broken and hurt to be with you'. _****Well guess what guys. ****_Guess what?_**

**_screw_****_that _**

**Now edited to meet teen standards. There is a more explicit version on my lj(soaring_smiles) **

* * *

There is probably, he thinks, a moment in between the doors slamming open and her storming up the ramp like a blonde, pink hurricane, where his doubt rises in the pit of his stomach.

But then it's washed away by her voice, strong and rough and not at all unsure, telling him what a _stupid fucking wanker_ he is for not answering his phone. He is, really, honestly, in all probability.

(he did wonder what that buzzing noise was a week ago, chalked it up to his TARDIS humming at him)

"You grew your hair," he says and it slides through his fingertips, soft and gold. Somewhere, his reason and common sense are beating at the walls of their jail cells and he vows to never let them out again.

"_Wanker_," she sniffs again, rage giving way to relief, to something he can't put a label to. And then she starts crying and he's always been rubbish with tears. Is she mad at him? Is she _sad_ at him? This doesn't make any _sense_, and to his horror he feels something wet on his cheeks.

_Stop it,_ he says to himself, but his arms are already around her, tweed and denim and her breath hot against his hearts, hands fisted in his shirt. He feels her tremble, or perhaps his hearts are pounding enough to shake both of them.

"Nice tie," she manages and he decides that's probably a good time to start kissing her.

(he is very good at that it turns out, only not so good at remembering why he was fixing the TARDIS and for a moment he attributes the massive firework/explosion for her tongue in his mouth, which is of course, _completely_ understandable)

* * *

The the only topic broached over tea is _why he looks like a university English professor, and what on Earth is his chin made out of, wax?_ This isn't because he doesn't care, but rather because he cares too much.

He doesn't _want_ to know about the other him, or why she's not aged, or the tan on her third finger. Is that selfish, yes, probably. But then she doesn't want to know about the years behind his eyes or where Donna is.

Too old, him. Seen far too much, hundreds of years with these eyes. So when she asks how long it's been, he just replies _'a while'_ and then pulls her lips to his, so he can taste the lie on her mouth.

The tea runs down the table legs, stains the wood, but already her skirt is being hiked out of the way, his shirt practically ripped off, nails pressing into his skin.

"Please," he says against her throat. "Can we..."

_(and that's her frantic nod, her hands twining in his hair, untying his bow-tie carefully and laying it aside, offering herself to him, and he takes it)_

"I haven't done this in a bit," she pants and the lights flicker; a warning from the TARDIS to get a room or risk cold showers for a week. He's never liked warm water, to think.

"Really?" he asks the line of her jaw. "What a _magnificent_ coincidence. We'll both have to be horrible at it."

And they aren't, because he's the Doctor and she's Rose Tyler and it's also slightly ridiculously easy to make her come, and he is rather good at sex, if he does say so himself. Even if it is on the dining room table, and that's English Breakfast soaking his elbow.

_(he's missed this for centuries, doesn't take his time)_

"I meant what I said on the beach," she whispers.

_(and he closes his eyes and lets out a gasp, because oh god, oh god, oh god)_

"Quite right too," he says raggedly and she smacks him.

It _hurts_.

* * *

He takes her to a a planet where the sky changes colors, iridescent and metallic, sun streaking the clouds into prisms of light.

He watches her. She's changed, irrevocably, but despite whatever she's seen, there is some lingering innocence about her that has him thinking of her as a girl, still; the compassion the universes haven't touched and the wonder and the kindness that hasn't brittled and turned into harsh cynicism.

And isn't that laughable, isn't that stupid, to think of her as needing protection, but her fingers are still so small, and he can't help but hold her closer that it warrants, seeing if she fits.

(maybe over-protective genes skip a regeneration)

She does, of course, and either it's because he regenerated with her in his old/new mind, or simply because she's Rose.

They look at the sky a while longer until the nocturnal nasties make a surprise appearance and they leg it back to the TARDIS, teeth barely missing his skull.

"That's more like it," Rose says happily, out of breath and dirty, and he thinks she's maybe a bit perfect, even if she doesn't like fish fingers and custard.

* * *

For some reason, he can say it now, and does with alarming regularity. She puts on his shirt and he says it. She eats his biscuit and he says it. Breakfast comes up again after his cooking, and he murmurs it against her head while he holds her hair back.

One day, after a particularly fervent declaration after she bought him a custard flavored ice-cream(could use fish) she tells him point blank to stop it.

"Only for special occasions," she lectures, chocolate making her mouth dark and moist, and he can't really he the direction his mind(and other parts) go.

"But," he says bewilderedly after considering it for some time, "I think everything with you is special."

And it is, he loves every second he can spend with her, whether it's shagging or cuddling(which he adores, especially when she's naked) or talking over a plate of Jammy Dodgers, or exploring dangerous planets without shin pads which are clearly recommended_(look at us, aren't we daring)_

He doesn't really understand why she attacks him and snogs him against a tree, but he isn't complaining, not even after the police arrest them for public indecency.

(they end up shagging in the jail cell, just to make a point-that's what he tells himself anyway)

They are _brilliant_ revolutionists.

* * *

Their first fight is her fault, of course, her little feet wandering off when it's _clearly_ dangerous, _clearly_ unsafe.

And so he yells at her after the bomb hits, and then yells at her in the TARDIS and then yells at her some more just because she made him somewhat hysterical.

And she's not listening, so he _makes_ her, shoves her back up against the wall and shakes her for being such a headstrong idiot, for making him worry so much it burns.

And then he shags her, but angrily, and it gets his point across much better than yelling, with added moaning.

She lets him do it, lets him be rough for the first time, lets him hurt her a bit with how he does it, sometimes crying out in pain and sometimes in pleasure. And that makes him feel awful, absolutely terrible, but he ends up coming anyway, rather violently, banging his head against the strut.

"I'm sorry," he says again and again when he passes the regenerator over her bruises, can't stand to see them and know he did it. Blood is running down his chin because his head happened to collide with a sharp bit.

"Hey." Her palm cups her cheek. "It's alright. I'm fine."

But he doesn't think so, makes dinner for her and lights candles and they both burn so the blackened kitchen is abandoned in favour of chips, with as much dignity as is possible with his eyebrows nearly singed off.

"You're insane," she tells him, and dunks her chips in a sea of vinegar. They both like the crunchy ones best, and mock-fight over them, while simultaneously playing footsie under the table.

"I still am s-"

"One more word about that and I'll murder you for a better incarnation, thanks."

He sulks, a bit.

She laughs at him, but there's still that guilt rising in him, and he swears he won't do it again, no matter how much Rose says he overreacts.

He'll be so gentle, next time.

_(next time is incidentally against a brick wall on a planet called something he can't remember, and she wore that dress, and he's short-circuited, and oh look, that's a police car, how nice)_

* * *

He doesn't _quite_ know what to say to Amelia Pond when she opens the door, and suspects what he originally had in mind won't cut it, exactly, by her thunderous eyes.

After all, something like _'hello this is a girl I lost a while ago but now she's back, and I'm in love with her and we have fantastic sex regularly and one time we wore matching outfits and were arrested for being annoyingly precious',_ is not really what she wants to hear.

Luckily, Rose breezes past the awkward distrust in a moment by completely undermining his mysterious aura, and cleaning dirt off his nose with her thumb while he yelps and squirms.

Amy takes Rose into her living room, giggling and looking back at him and exchanging stories that result in loud snorting and gasped laughter.

He watches them grumpily, exuding disapproval and then embarassment when Rose tells Amy and Rory about his dinner-skills.

He is a Time Lord, the last of them, and he is over a millennia old. He is ancient and forever and wise, a genius not to be trifled with, a great and terrible figure, the saviour and destroyer of worlds, a legend woven throughout time and space...and yes, she's getting out the pictures of him when he got drunk in Venice and fell off the bridge.

Everyone laughs at him and he is Not Pleased until Amy reveals his plate, which makes Rose's nose wrinkle up in distaste.

"Gross," she mutters, and Amy nods in agreement. He shrugs, shovels food in his mouth and starts lecturing Rory on how he should have fixed the fitting on the light bulb.

"Was he always like this?" Amy wonders, taking a piece of roast chicken. Rose nods gravely.

"Always talks with his mouth full," she confides, and her hand lands somewhere that is decidedly not his leg.

He chooses not to explain why he chokes on his food and nearly dies and regenerates at the Pond's dinner table.

* * *

A group of aliens capture them and threaten them with death if they don't demonstrate their copulating methods.

They are _quite_ happy to oblige.

* * *

A wedding of a millennium occurs and they both dress up very nicely, with cravats and lingerie and everything, and he even has a top hat, and they are very very serious.

"Rose."

"Ssh."

The bride enters the hall and there is a sigh of envy from the guests. Rose's hands fist in her silk.

"Rose."

"Shut. Up."

The groom turns his head and gives a look of incandescent love to his wife-to-be. The priest presiding nods approvingly, and a proud father's footsteps echo on marble.

_"Rose, they're all walruses,"_ he hisses and she loses it, doubles over in hysterics and so does he, laughs and laughs and laughs because _look a walrus in a wedding dress._

They are evicted by two walruses in security guard dress and they are both very, very contrite and solemn.

He buys a celebratory mug; she can't look at it without breaking out in giggles and snorts.

(in future he will use it when she is absolutely furious at him, and it nearly always works, nearly always makes her stop shouting at him. Almost.)

* * *

"I want wrinkles," she says one day when she gets out of the shower, something horribly sad on her face, wistful and longing.

She will never be able to have children, never change, never have what the sensible part of her desires.

And oh, he hates it when she's sad so he draws fine lines on her face with her eyeliner, and then on his too, and fetches two pairs of specs and some grey powder to dust their hair.

They go about the universe with matching _(fake)_ signs of age pretending to be mature and responsible and the type of couple who share glasses of wine over a candle-lit supper and talk about philosophy after sex. The physic paper explodes.

_(the wrinkles and powder melt off in pinky-green rain and they are back to eating two minute noodles that are twenty years old and talking about that place with the sentient dust bunnies and odd-shaped hats)_

They would be excellent at being adults, he is sure, if they weren't so busy having fun.

* * *

"Here is your love slave, o great goddess," pledges a small orange scaly thing, and he is brought forwards with a cloth hanging over his groin and a scowl.

"This is by _far_ the best thing that's happened all week," comments Rose from her golden seat, clad in the finest satins and most luxurious velvets. She winks at him. "Chain him up, would you?"

He is left on the floor for three hours and nine minutes, spread eagled on the dirt while Rose goes about her goddess-y business; blessing small children with words of holiness, sentencing criminals to eternal hell, that sort of thing. He notices her words of power are actually from his textbooks.

"And thou shalt be sentenced to the reparation of burning stabilizers and the painful reversing of the polarity of the merciless neutron flow!" she proclaims and there are suitable gasps from her audience.

The Doctor tries to twist out of the chains to raise an eyebrow at her, but ends up looking like he's having a seizure, and is rushed to the healing tent where the matron feels him up.

"Hah," says Rose when he tells her, so he carries her to bed(only tripping once) and shows her _exactly_ how the bindings are supposed to be used.

_(to be fair, it is not his fault he misplaced the keys, their room is very cluttered, really, and after all, turnabout is fair play)_

* * *

"I think," he says as stars explode above them and her fingers are combing through his hair, her mouth at his ear, "that we are doing this wrong."

He flips them so her hair is spread out on his coat, kisses the confusion right out of her, tongue chasing her doubt away. "How do you mean?" she asks and unfastens his trousers.

He drags her hem above her waist, holds her tight to him.

"I think," he says, "we're supposed to be getting bored with this."

She moans, then laughs. "Nah. Could do this forever."

"Well, yes, obviously. But perhaps we should...how do you humans put it...spice it up?" His voice squeaks at the end when Rose rolls above him, blocking out his view of the sky.

She grinds her hips experimentedly; he rolls his eyes back in his head and his hands press her down on him harder.

"Different places and...su-oh, oh-_Rose_-"

"Well," she gasps, "if you insist."

_(if he ever meets someone who will listen, he will tell them shagging at a movie theatre should be done behind the projector and not in front)_

Rose calls him the Director after that, and that's one audience who came in to see something quite different from Kate Winslet.

They are, of course, thrown out, but by now it's becoming a regular occurrence.

* * *

"It's your birthday," he says to her on what he's decided is a Tuesday morning.

"Oh?" She perks up and grins at him. "How old am I? Did you get me something?"

He deliberates. "How old do you want to be?"

"Er...two hundred and four. I've always wanted to be two hundred and four."

"Right! Two hundred and four it is. Would you like a cake?"

"Only if you're not baking."

Determined to prove himself, he makes a spectacular blue cake in the shape of the TARDIS that tastes like angels crying tears of joy. At least he thinks so.

(it turns out when she said two hundred and four she didn't mean two hundred and four candles because then the cake would collapse)

It does.

* * *

There is one time their penchant for public shagging starts a rebellion. It's barely time for them to be released from their (rather comfortable) cell and there are people lining the streets.

The touch-phobic planet has gone mad, plunged into desperate sex everywhere they look, revellers congratulating them and saluting then as true pioneers.

"Oops," she says. He puts a hand over her eyes.

(somewhere in the botanic gardens fifty years later there is a statue of them, and it's very realistic, and also a brothel named Droctor Pleasure Palace)

They never do live that down.

* * *

They go dancing because if they can't be old, why not be young? They are supremely attractive and bouncy after all.

He dances like a puppet on steroids and she gets smashed on her second glass. They are told to go back to the psychiatric ward by some teenagers, and nurse their bruised pride all the way home.

"Unfair! I've won competitions!" he whines at her. She stares at him blearily and trips over her toes.

"Y'know t'way y'hold m-hand...it's-it's...s-sexy..."

She throws up on his shoes and then passes out, and some passers-by think he's a rapist and he is stopped and nearly arrested.

_(we're so sorry Your Majesty, we didn't recognise you and your Queen from sight, we're so terribly sorry to hear of her narcolepsy)_

By the time they get back to the TARDIS he is considering dance lessons. But, of course, he is far above anybody's level for that.

It's strange how, even though she's out of it, Rose's snore sounds like she's laughing at him.

* * *

He takes her to a funfair and pledges to win her something like all those romantic stories. He is hopeless at the strength competition, terrible at throwing hoops and ends up squirting himself in the eye with the water pistol.

He does, however, have excellent pick-pocketing skills, even half blind with a sore bicep. So he steals her a duck from the prize stand.

They name it Adam, and it has pride of place on the console until he accidentally melts it like Mickey's head. He insists this is somehow because of the memory of Head Hole Boy has persisted and the TARDIS felt the need to exorcise it.

"_You_," she says, "are a menance to society."

"So are you," he replies and wipes off the gooey yellow that's all that remains of poor Adam.

They are, and they have the Most Wanted posters from fifty three planets to prove it.

(he attributes this to her skirts, and is perhaps sixty-two percent right)

* * *

Somewhere the Doctor and Rose are treating their relationship with all the serious consideration and somber musing it deserves, with deep meaningful conversations and no rubber ducks at all.

There is no public sex on benches, no half-accidental feel-ups or burnt chickens and hasty take-out ordering with added swearing and missed high-fives.

_(but where in both universes is the fun in that?)_


End file.
